


Kinky Hiking

by tenderly_wicked



Series: Dark!John [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Corporal Punishment, Discipline, Dom/sub, Emotional Manipulation, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Male Slash, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Slash, Smut, Whipping, top!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-19
Updated: 2012-02-19
Packaged: 2017-10-31 10:53:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/343258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenderly_wicked/pseuds/tenderly_wicked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/14213.html?thread=79441541#t79441541">this prompt</a>. It’s the aftermath of “The Hounds of Baskerville”. John is very, very, VERY angry with Sherlock (and you probably know why). Sherlock’s going to pay for what he's done.</p><p>Another version of Sherlock's punishment <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/343273">is here</a>. It's not a part of this series, but it features dark!John too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kinky Hiking

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, thanks to my beta selana1505!

“Now it’s my time to drive,” John says softly but determinedly.

Sherlock must have instantly understood that they are not going to the station. He’s smart enough not to protest though. No questions either. That means – he’s ready for whatever John is planning for him.

Sherlock most definitely has something in common with that woman, Irene Adler. He misbehaves. Sometimes it’s just a small lapse in discipline. Like leaving a pack of severed thumbs in the fridge, _again_. Now and then, it’s something worse. Like arranging a “totally scientific experiment” and locking your partner in a lab and scaring him to death (not literally, thank God!) after giving him a presumable drug – just to try the suspicious substance on an average mind.

The reason John Watson’s usually more or less calm about these incidents (at least after the first reflex burst of righteous anger) is that he’s observant enough to see what other people miss. When Sherlock does something terribly wrong, at the very moment of acting, he is usually unaware that he’s being bad. He’s too carried away, excited, distracted. Maybe it’s not an excuse, but Sherlock’s really sorry afterwards, sorry for saying horrible things, sorry for doing horrible things. He doesn’t care what most people think of him, they are not important, but those rare human beings who love him _do_ count.

Sherlock is always willing to redeem himself once he has realized his fault. He just doesn’t know how. He becomes exaggeratedly caring and helpful, which is totally out of his character. Sometimes it’s these small awkward gestures of attention and affection that betray him. When he, for instance, starts offering a sauce to your dish, you can tell for sure that Sherlock has found himself guilty of something. It all happens not because he tries to fool you and show how nice he is but because he desperately wants to be worth loving again.

It has taken John some time to realize how far Sherlock is ready to go to earn forgiveness. Sherlock doesn’t mind if the punishment is corporal. In fact, it’s much easier for him to bear a thrashing than a few days of offended silence. He prefers red welts on his backside to affronted looks on John’s face. When John had found it out, their life became much more simple. If Sherlock does something wrong, John is most glad to provide him with an opportunity to pay for it.

Now Sherlock is fidgeting in his seat, anticipation mixed with apprehension flickering in his eyes.

With one hand on the wheel, John pats at his knee, slides the palm up his thigh and feels Sherlock’s body tensing. What does he think John’s going to do? Drive their Jeep off the road, order him to the backseat and administer a thorough pounding to his guilty arse? John could have done it anyway, not as a penalty, and Sherlock probably would have liked it, which is strictly against the mere conception of punishment. No-o, Sherlock needs something more prolonged, well-thought and not-so-easy-to-bear – to know that he has finally deserved John’s mercy…

The offshoot from the main road John has chosen at first seems forsaken, but it leads to a lonely standing moorland cottage.

“It’s Merripit House,” John says, one hand still resting on Sherlock’s groin. “I’ve rented it. We’ll spend a few days here. No protests are accepted.” He squeezes the bulge of Sherlock’s crotch once more – and takes his hand off, clearly to Sherlock’s disappointment. “I hope it will be a pleasant vacation for me. But it’s not supposed to be pleasant for you.”

Sherlock sighs. Of course he would have preferred to return to London – being on holiday is a waste of time. No one’s asking for his opinion, though.

“It won’t be boring,” John assures him with an unkind grin.

Perhaps soon Sherlock will be wishing he’d rather have time to be bored. A very intense schedule awaits him. And there will be no separate beds at night.

It takes them some time to settle down. John doesn’t hurry, though he’s catching Sherlock’s nervous glances more and more often. He knows that Sherlock is waiting for him to declare the sentence, so to say. But why rush things. Anticipation of the unknown is a punishment in itself.

When Sherlock has gotten edgy enough, dawdling around the house and not knowing what to expect, John sits down on the sofa in the living room and calls him, “Come here, stand in front of me. We need to have a serious talk about your behaviour.”

Sherlock immediately responds to the order, and John’s lips twitch. So keen to be corrected, are we? But he holds back a smile and tries to be stern. That’s what Sherlock needs. Discipline, not humour.

“So. You’ve used me as an experiment. What do you think you deserve after that?”

“It was absolutely safe,” Sherlock mumbles, looking away. “You were in no physical danger…”

John interrupts him, “It’s not an answer, Sherlock. What do you deserve? Tell me.”

Sherlock shifts his weight uneasily, “Punishment?”

“Punishment,” John nods. “Remove your clothes, all of it.”

Without arguing (and almost with relief), Sherlock begins to undress. John is watching him as he unbuttons his shirt, unzips his trousers. Sherlock’s hurried, efficient movements have nothing to do with the art of coy striptease, but that’s what John wants from him – eagerness to follow all the instructions. In a minute, Sherlock’s clothes are folded and placed in the nearest chair. He is standing naked in the middle of the room, hands crossed over his cock and balls. Waiting.

John lets his gaze inspect Sherlock’s body. “Hands at your sides. That’s better. First rule – while we are in the house, you’ll be staying nude.” John would have preferred to keep Sherlock stripped of his clothes at their London flat too, all the time, but that could be rather inconvenient, taking Mrs Hudson’s frequent visits into account. (And oh gosh, what an awkward incident it was when Sherlock had been summoned to Buckingham Palace clad in nothing but a sheet and, strictly following John’s orders, refused to get dressed – until John arrived and allowed him to put his suit on!) Now that there’s no one to see them, though, it’s a good thought to increase Sherlock’s uneasiness by depriving him of his accustomed “armour”, all this posh clothing. Despite his usual self-confidence, Sherlock feels a bit unsure about his own body – too angular, too pale, from his point of view. Always a perfectionist. To John, he _is_ perfection, but Sherlock trusts his own opinion more.

He also tends to be confused about the natural bodily reactions he’s unable to control. Right now, his cock is completely hard and standing straight up – the fact he tried to conceal, but without success.

John fuels Sherlock’s embarrassment, shaking his head disapprovingly, “How very inappropriate of you. We’re discussing serious matters – and you’re so unsuitably aroused. That won’t do. Rule number two, then, will be this – you are not allowed to touch yourself and come until your punishment is over. I may have my way with you if I’d like to, but you are not to ejaculate, no matter what I do.”

Sherlock surely knows quite well that John will be doing _lots_ of things to him in the next few days. That makes suppressing his erection all the more difficult.

“When we go out,” John continues, “you’ll be wearing the clothing I’ve picked. Suited for countryside and rough walking. Fetch my duffel. I’ve bought something for you.”

There are olive green lightweight trousers, a matching shirt, a waterproof coat, and army boots, brand new and neatly packed. “Try them on,” John suggests. The spring weather is warm, but not enough for Sherlock to hike naked, though the thought of it is definitely appealing. Maybe they should return to the moors later, in summer.

“We are going to visit local landmarks,” John explains as Sherlock examines the new gear, with a dubious look on his face. “I haven’t seen much of them, too busy with your investigation, breaking into military bases and exposing myself to toxic stuff. Now I’m going to relax and go on a hike with you. But we can also take care of your punishment at the same time.”

In his new uniform, Sherlock looks like a rebellious, disheveled squaddie, the one who definitely requires correction. Well, that’s what John is good at – imposing military discipline when needed.

He orders Sherlock to march out onto the porch. “Before we go for a walk, you are to do something. See those hazel bushes?” He points at the shrubs behind the low wall that surrounds the cottage and its small orchard. “Here’s a knife for you. Go and cut a good hazel rod for yourself.”

After giving this command, John sits down on the porch, waiting for Sherlock to return with a nice hazel switch. That’s what he loves about the countryside. It contains so many materials that can be used for corporal punishment.

He also loves to prolong Sherlock’s anticipation of the inevitable.

When Sherlock returns, a single branch in his hand, John meets him with a grimace, “What took you so long?” He grabs the switch and tests it – Sherlock winces involuntarily at its swish through the air. It’s good, in fact. Very efficient. Strong and smooth. Sherlock has removed all twigs and leaves that would have lessened its sharp sting. John taps at his own palm with the rod. Flexible but resilient. Thin enough to break the skin if necessary.

“Not ideal, but acceptable,” John admits. “Now we are almost ready to go on a round tour to see the local beauties of nature. Just a few more clarifications.”

John is well equipped for a small journey. He’s got appropriate clothing, a compass, a map of the moors from Dartmoor Information Centre, a first aid kit (he isn’t planning anything really traumatic yet, but you never know when this will come in handy), some snacks and water, and a compact, lightweight ground pad too – just in case. Which is also important for his current intentions, he has purchased a wrist-mounted GPS receiver, a sort of training device that provides precise speed, distance, and pace data.

John touches Sherlock’s chin with the tip of the switch. “So you boasted that you could always rely on your senses, unless you were drugged. We’re going to check it. You’ll receive five strokes per each mile. But it will be _your_ responsibility to define whether we have covered a mile or not – and I’ll tell if you are correct,” he looks down at his GPS unit. “If it turns out that you are wrong and we’ve walked more than a mile – you will earn one more stroke per hundred feet. If you stop earlier – it’s alright, but the next mile starts from that point. You’ll also take an additional switching at every obstacle we cross – stiles, gates, streams, whatever. Only three strokes if you stop by yourself – and five if I have to remind you. It will be a lesson for you. You’re too quick at making decisions. Sometimes you should stop and think before crossing a boundary, literally or metaphorically. Now, off we go.”

And that’s when Sherlock makes his first mistake. Immediately at the start. He’s just about to open the white wooden gate with a latch – beyond it lies the wide moor, and he is ready to go where John points him. The switch slaps him across the hand, lightly, and John wonders, in a very friendly voice, “What are you seeing, Sherlock?”

Sherlock stiffens. It’s always nice to take him by surprise.

“An additional punishment,” John reminds him. “At _each and every_ obstacle we cross. The orchard wall counts too. It’s hardly my fault you weren’t listening. Pants off.”

Confused, Sherlock pulls his pants down to present his bottom and leans to the gate. He’s always displeased with himself when he misses something so stupidly.

Slowly, John runs the tip of the switch up and down Sherlock’s buttocks, defining the area to be whipped. “Legs wider,” he orders. At the first stroke, a very energetic one, Sherlock breathes in sharply. “Don’t clench,” John warns him. The tracking device feels a little bulky on his arm, so he positions the band a bit higher to ensure full mobility of his wrist – to accelerate the tip of the switch just before impact. The second stroke is even better. Good enough to extract a barely audible whine. The flexible switch bends with each blow – three, four, five times. “Alright,” John says at last. “I guess now you’ll be paying more attention to what I say.”

Sherlock is good at making quick daring choices. John is good at planning things. He likes to have a map in his hands. To choose the route carefully. To be in control. Whatever he’s arranged, Sherlock can always be sure that his preparations have been thorough.

They are unlikely to encounter anyone else on their way. No one will see Sherlock humiliatingly bare-arsed. John will spare his dignity – but it doesn’t mean that he’ll also spare the rod, so to say. Walking behind Sherlock along a moor-path, with the hazel switch under his armpit and a rucksack on his back, John grins in anticipation. In the first half-mile, there is a stile over a granite hedge, Sherlock will see this looming threat soon.

It’s a good sign that Sherlock hasn’t even asked how many miles they are about to cover, on average, and how many hurdles they are going to cross. It means he admits that it’s up to John to decide what punishment will be adequate to his fault.

At the hedge, Sherlock obediently stops without John having to remind him, and the switch is applied to his buttocks once more. It makes a fascinating “swoosh” sound. The strokes are well-controlled and deft, not too hard. John wants them to tingle rather than to bite the skin. There will be more of them later, no need to make the pain unbearable yet.

Another half-mile – and Sherlock makes a mistake again. He is only human, after all. Besides, maybe that short break at the hedge has impaired his sense of distance. He stops almost two hundred feet further than he should, according to John’s GPS unit – and thus gains two additional swats. This time, John pays attention to the backs of Sherlock’s thighs as well as to his buttocks. They are equally sensitive, so why neglect them. Having instructed Sherlock to bend leaning to the nearest tree, he applies seven strokes slowly. At intervals between them, he generously encourages Sherlock to rub his reddening butt cheeks at will. It doesn’t really ease the pain, but it looks lovely and helps Sherlock to recover a bit before the next blow.

On their further walk, John is enjoying the views – crests of jagged granite foaming up into fantastic surges – while Sherlock is apprehensively scrutinising the vicinity for impending stone walls and stiles. Next time he stops _before_ the mile is over, drops his pants, almost routinely, and bends over at the waist, bracing his hands on his knees. No, that’s wrong, the punishment shouldn’t be routine. So that Sherlock doesn’t get bored, John agitates the switch up and down quickly, for a change. The rapid-fire lashes raining down on the ridged backside must be very, very stingy. Sherlock’s legs quake, and he starts whimpering quietly on each stroke. Yet he doesn’t flinch.

Though John is tempted to take Sherlock on a local 13 mile circular tour, he’s not that cruel. Just one more mile (and five short severe swipes) – and they reach the aim of their journey. On a hilltop surrounded by rocks, John declares that they will make a mini-camp there, for a sort of picnic. He spreads the ground pad upon a huge flat stone and lets Sherlock lie down on his stomach instead of sitting on his well-striped rear end. In exchange for this small mercy, Sherlock is to lower his pants and underwear again so that John can inspect his handiwork.

John trails a palm over his reddened buttocks and inner thighs. “Sometimes you are a real pain in the behind. Now you know what it feels like.”

“Forgiven, then?” Sherlock murmurs, not looking back.

“Mmm… Not yet.” 

Snacks can wait. Being “well equipped” means that John has also got a pre-lubricated condom in his first aid kit, and now he’s going to put it to use.

Sherlock doesn’t resist when John squeezes his hips and forces him onto his knees. Always eager, are you? But John won’t hurry. He traces all the marks, one welt after the other, caresses them with his fingertips, presses harder with a nail now and again, so that Sherlock feels what John has done to him – what he’s allowed John to do. A little shudder goes through Sherlock’s body when John finally spreads the abused cheeks to proceed with his obvious intentions. Sherlock lets out a short grunt when John’s cock starts breaching its way into his unprepared hole, deeper and deeper. Soon, John’s pubic hair is scratching Sherlock’s tender skin with every thrust. John wants it to last, but when he feels Sherlock’s passage clenching around him, he finds himself unable to hold back for long. Sherlock’s knees buckle as John comes, and they both collapse onto the pad. John stays inside him until they catch their breath.

While John is wrapping the spent condom in a tissue and packing it (he’s too conscientious just to throw it away on the ground), Sherlock lies sprawled on his stomach, unwilling to get up.

“Um… A small accident…” he mutters at last. He sounds truly perplexed and confused. “I haven’t touched myself but…”

“You came? After I told you not to?” John is amused and even flattered that he can make Sherlock orgasm from anal stimulation only, but his voice is stern – Sherlock should remember who’s in control here. “So you’re disobeying my rules – and dare to ask me if you are forgiven? Sherlock, that’s absolutely illogical. Clean the pad. You can use your underwear. And then _sit down_. I see that you deserve no indulgences yet.”

Watching Sherlock destroy the evidence of his accidental misbehaviour, John smiles dreamily. Sherlock will have to go through a very intense and extended session of correction. John is thinking of long lazy afternoons in Merripit House, of the ancient squeaky bed, and Sherlock, naked and undone, tied to the bedpost. Maybe they will use clamps for his nipples, or fishing weights attached to his cock with clips… And surely Sherlock’s arsehole will be subjected to more prolonged and meticulous treatment. When John finally _allows_ Sherlock to come, it will be a mindblowing release.

After that, there will be time for hugging beside a large brick fireplace, for shared silence and relaxed warmth of tangled bodies. Kinky as this experience may be, it’s a kind of holidays for them both. Far from London, safe from all the dangers. A few days when John can have Sherlock for himself.

It’s very likely that Sherlock understands (or will understand eventually) – John has been planning all this long before the unfortunate experiment in the lab. He’s rented the cottage, bought all the walking gear in advance… Well, what’s to be said? Knowing Sherlock, one can be sure that an appropriate pretext to punish him will always turn up sooner or later.


End file.
